


such hot blood

by brophigenia



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Caretaking, Cold Weather, Dirty Talk, Huddling For Warmth, M/M, Nicknames, Pet Names, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sort Of, Temperature Play, because he's always british, kind of, skov's oral fixation, swan is british
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-17
Updated: 2018-12-17
Packaged: 2019-09-20 23:13:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17031759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brophigenia/pseuds/brophigenia
Summary: The morning had dawned chilly but tolerable; a brisk 55 degrees, and no cause for much alarm beyond a few good-natured swears as Skov jogged across campus in his Aglionby uniform, moving quick to keep warm.(AKA, the one where Swan does Skov RIGHT and warms him up from the cold.)





	such hot blood

**Author's Note:**

> Y'all are here for this. This is why you're here. Comment on this shit or I'm moving back to LiveJournal.

The morning had dawned chilly but tolerable; a brisk 55 degrees, and no cause for much alarm beyond a few good-natured swears as Skov jogged across campus in his Aglionby uniform, moving quick to keep warm. 

There’d been soccer practice after, though, and the sky had gotten dark at five the way it was wont to do in January. The sun had gone down and the temperature had gone down with it, until there was nothing but the frost on the wind and the pain that came with it, his sweat making everything wetter and  _ colder.  _

He practically vibrates his way back to the dorm, shivering like he’s coming down off of one of K’s nastier party favors. 

“Oh, fuck,” Swan says, all surprise, when he opens the door to relieve Skov’s numb-fingered fumblings. “You look like shite, Duck.” It’s the dumbest fucking nickname; a conglomeration of making fun of Skov’s frosh year haircut and of the way he often types  _ what the duck  _ because of stupid Autocorrect when he’s drunk and live-texting all the dumb shit that goes down at the soccer parties. When Jiang or K say it, they sneer it and make it something that causes the back of his neck to go hot. Not in a  _ bad  _ way, just— not how Swan says it. 

(Proko doesn’t care for nicknames unless they’re for  _ K.  _ Maybe he did once. He doesn’t, anymore.)

_ Swan and Duck. _ It’s. It’s okay. It doesn’t make Skov get a shame boner. It makes him feel squirmy-warm the way only Swan manages. 

“F-fuck you,” Skov manages to spit in response, a full minute too late, between chattering teeth. Swan’s eyes are sharp when they take in his bared legs and bluish lips. He jerks Skov inside with an iron-band grip on his bicep, drags him along to the bathroom that they  _ used  _ to share with the fuckers next door, before they all came to an  _ agreement.  _ Now there’s a dresser shoved up against the adjoining door. 

It’s good for privacy. Good for when all Skov wants to do is take a cold shower after conditioning, hissing through his teeth at the feel of the icy chill on his exhausted muscles. Good for when he wants to get fucked in the morning before they even brush their teeth, bent over the sink and groaning for it. 

Good for  _ now, _ when Swan manhandles him out of his soaked, freezing clothes and puts him under the spray of warm (not hot) water. It only makes Skov shiver harder for a few long minutes, his jaw clenched so tight he thinks his teeth might shatter, his shoulders practically up by his ears. 

“It’s alright,” Swan says, and leaves him for half a second to retrieve a new bar of soap from the medicine cabinet. One of the artisanal bars that Proko loves to buy, because he’s actually somebody’s grandma, beneath the whole  _ painslut monster motherfucker.  _ Skov wonders sometimes if the real Proko was like that, too, or if it was a personality addition dreamt up by K. He’s not sure which would be more hysterical, more sad. 

The soap smells like vanilla and maybe some kind of cinnamon shit. Like cinnamon buns. Like Skov’s Baba used to make, when he was little. Before she, yknow, fucking died. Swan lathers it up against his skin, rubs it into the space between his shoulder blades where he’s prone to break out if he doesn’t scrub off well enough after practice, the backs of his thighs, behind his ears. Swan’s touch is gentle but  _ firm.  _ Skov can feel every iota of potential violence in those hands. Is always aware of how much bigger Swan is, compared to him. How effortlessly he moves all his bulk around, practically dancing instead of walking. 

He almost dozes off right there under the spray, is startled when Swan leans over him to shut it off and presses a kiss to the back of his neck while he’s at it. He wraps one of the nice towels around Skov, rubs off the excess moisture thoroughly, leaves Skov wrapped up like a kid in the towel, perched on the closed toilet lid, to go get clothes to change into. 

There’s no reason why Swan should bring back his  _ own _ clothes. Skov lives here. Skov’s clothes are in the closet, in a pile next to the hamper, stuffed into the chest of drawers by his bed. 

Swan ignores all that and brings him a pair of too-big sweatpants, a crew tee shirt, an ancient Supreme hoodie. Swan even brings him a pair of  _ socks,  _ kneels down in front of him to roll them up over Skov’s bony toes and knobby ankles. He presses a kiss to Skov’s knee while he’s down there. 

It’s. A lot. 

Skov gets tucked up into Swan’s bed like a kid, the blankets pulled up to his chin. He watches through slitted eyes as Swan (there’s no other word to accurately describe it)  _ bustles  _ around, digging in drawers until he comes up with a fucking  _ hot water bottle.  _

“Be right back, luvy,” Swan mumbles, unthinking, and disappears out into the hallway with his prize. 

Skov drifts while he’s gone, can’t help it with everything so warm and smelling of Swan’s cologne. Another Proko purchase. Hugo Boss. Proko himself wears goddamn  _ Chanel,  _ because he’s secretly somebody’s drunk-ass Page Six-reject mother. Skov imagines him dressed up in a skirt and sweater co-ord and snorts. Proko would probably get way too into that. Heels and stockings and pearls and Dior lipstick. And then K would turn it into some kind of extreme hardcore porno thing, because he turns  _ everything  _ into some kind of extreme hardcore porno thing. Skov doesn’t even want to  _ think _ about the time they bought all those marshmallow Peeps and raw eggs to prank the assistant dean. 

Swan reappears before he can remember the atrocities in full 4K, holding aloft the hot water bottle and an honest to god steaming mug of  _ tea.  _ He tucks the bottle up next to Skov’s feet and blows on the tea to cool it before letting Skov take a weak little sip. It burns on the way down, still, tasting  _ green.  _ Like how dandelions smell, except without the added pollen allergy. 

He feels even more like a kid, taken care of, when Swan sets his tea on the nightstand and then picks back up with the book he was reading before Skov got home. He was imposing, propped up on the headboard with his ankles crossed neatly. The picture of nonchalance from his elegant wrists to his woolen socks. 

“Read me a story,” Skov found himself mumbling, muzzy with a tongue heavy from the sleep that threatened to overtake him. He felt like a buoy floating in the ocean, about to be taken under. 

Swan paused, peered down at him through sooty eyelashes, but played a good sport regardless and began to read aloud, not bothering to start over or provide context. 

“In this interval between the morning party and the evening's ball, they seemed a placid, peaceful lot. Only the young men retained the restless energy which had filled the whole throng a short while before. Moving from group to group, drawling in their soft voices, they were as handsome as blooded stallions and as dangerous,” at this, Swan’s eyes swept over Skov’s form, concealed by the duvet. “The languor of midday had taken hold of the gathering, but underneath lurked tempers that could rise to killing heights in a second and flare out as quickly. Men and women, they were beautiful and wild, all a little violent under their pleasant ways and only a little tamed.” 

Swan’s voice was a honeyed burr that warmed Skov even more than his other ministrations. With his eyes still closed he squirmed, hands tucked uselessly up to his chest like little T-Rex arms. His fingers curled uselessly into the fabric of his borrowed sweatshirt. He bit his lips. 

“Swan,” he mouthed, and did not know if he spoke out loud. 

“Hmm?” Swan asked anyway, pausing his reading aloud. “Go to sleep, Ducky.” He encouraged, and one hand left his book in favor of sitting through Skov’s still-damp hair. 

Skov pushed his head into the touch, licked his lower lip. “Thought y’was gonna take care of me.” He murmured, such a  _ slut  _ and even he knew it himself, hard and achy in his borrowed sweatpants and so  _ warm.  _

“Poor thing,” Swan laughed, and did not throw everything off to fuck Skov like decency— like Skov’s  _ desperation  _ demanded. He marked his place in his book and put it safely on the nightstand, reached under the bed for the lube, plugged both of their phones in and turned off the lights because they’d neither of them want to get up to do it after they were finished. 

All the while, Skov kept up his restless little hitching of hip and breath, teeth flashing in the lurid pink light from Swan’s corny lava lamp in the corner, always left on. 

“Hot little brat,” Swan commented fondly, and then went about —Skov could hardly believe it— arranging the blankets and Skov’s clothes so that the only skin bared to the cool air of the dorm was his ass, smooth and pale and well-muscled. Peaked up in the air, and his face pressed into the pillows; Skov didn’t think he’d ever been so turned on. Everything felt fluttery and  _ hot,  _ even before Swan slicked up his long, dexterous fingers and slid them in two at once. 

“Need you need you need you,” Skov said into the pillow, muffled, teeth catching on the case. He tried widening his legs but was met with a light slap to his exposed skin. 

“Quit that, y’need to keep your feet on the bottle.” Swan grumbled, and paused everything to drag Skov’s feet back together, tucking the hot water bottle where it belonged. 

Skov, feeling chastened and harder than he’d ever been in his entire  _ life,  _ went very nearly cross-eyed and started to babble all sorts of embarrassing, needy nonsense that only had Swan shushing him, shutting him up with fingers in his mouth as he pushed in, thighs spread over Skov’s and cock devastating in all its girth and length. 

Nobody fucked him like Swan did. 

“Shh,” Swan groaned, still soothing him. His fingertips petted over Skov’s tongue, restless. “Shh, Ducky, just be good and lemme take care of you.” 

Skov bit down on his fingers and nodded, then shook his head, trembling finely in all his limbs, shoulders spreading, whole body wanting to stretch out so he could get Swan  _ deeper.  _

“Shh, shh,” Swan kept saying, thrusting, thrusting, so deep Skov could feel it in his  _ throat.  _ “‘ll warm you up, baby, just relax.” 

There was not a relaxed muscle in his whole fucking body; Skov’s eyes rolled back and he sucked desperately at Swan’s fingers, which spread wide and stretched the corners of his lips as Swan fitted another one in, four fingers in his mouth and a thumb beneath the point of his chin. He came like that, Swan not even thrusting anymore, just grinding. Just rolling his hips. Just pressing directly onto his prostate, and Skov cried on it, wet and snotty and a complete fucking mess. 

“Gonna fill you up, baby,” Swan mumbled as he came, too, humming his groans over the feel of Skov clenching around him. “Get you even warmer.” And it  _ was  _ warm, Swan spilling hot as blood out of him where he was swollen and  _ wet,  _ ruinous. Skov felt  _ ruined.  _ Swan pulled his sweatpants back up and patted his ass neatly, wiped up the mess from his belly and licked the tears off Skov’s cheeks as he fed it back to him on those thick fingers, pearlescent and sweet. 

“Go to sleep now, Duck.” Swan ordered. “I’ll wake y’up in time for a bit of breakfast before world civs.” 

Skov only nodded, mindless in his exhausted obedience, and closed his eyes, settling in for the night. 

**Author's Note:**

> follow me @ brophigenia.tumblr.com


End file.
